


They Are Survivors

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [19]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, BAMF Spike, Break Up, Hurt Spike, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Major Character Injury, Other, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Spike Whump, Triggers, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, the bomb tech padded into the kitchen—the scent of booze burning his nose—and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam. Ed was busy ransacking the place for more liquor and pouring it down the sink, but Greg didn’t pay attention.<br/>The bottle slipped from the man’s hand, and Greg narrowed his eyes at the brunette.<br/>“When did you start again?” Spike asked, trying to keep the ire out of his voice and most importantly his expression, and then waited for an answer—but none came. “Greg, this doesn’t make you weak—but you should have come to us and asked for help. Is this why you’ve been so distant? You didn’t want to ask for help? We all love you; we would have helped!” Then he whispered, “God, Greg, you don’t even let me hug you anymore—,”</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Are Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> This was pretty fun to write, because it's not something I usually would go for. It was a challenge, and a good one. Please leave feedback, as it keeps me motivated and happy, and thank you so much for everyone reading and leaving kudos/comments on my stories. I hope you all have a great day! <3
> 
> Also, a special thanks to Penguin201 who gave me the prompt for this story. I really hope this is at least close to what you were wanting, and that it lives up to your expectations. :)
> 
> A/N: I don't own Flashpoint nor the characters. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, this is still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

“We don’t have time to do a full check, you need to get in there and get in position before he kills that hostage.”

“I just need a few minutes to scan a pathway, what if—,”

“I said get in position, Spike.”

Greg knew he’d made the worst decision of his life as soon as the command leaves his lips, and the weight of the situation nearly brings him to his knees; his skin is pale, and the gear on him is all of a sudden too heavy and constricting. It’s a terror he’s felt so few times that he could count it on one hand—the feeling of knowing you’ve failed your team.

The static that had threatened to rupture his eardrum is gone, and left in its place is the shouting of his team—but the voice he wants to hear isn’t there.

He can’t move; the command truck has become his prison and video feed of the interior of the house is holding his eyes hostage. He sees the subject startle from the blast and runs out one of the countless doors, and the hostage collapses to the floor—alive, bleeding but alive. There’s smoke drifting into the camera feed, but that’s all. There’s no sign of Spike.

“The subject just left through the door in quadrant four,” Greg said numbly, and he thought he’d heard Jules respond that they’d gotten him.

“We’ve got an officer down,” Greg let his head fall when he heard the fated words in Ed’s strained voice, and the fear quickly consumed the shame, “Come on, Spike, wake up.”

“I’m sending in the paramedics,” the negotiator whispered, shaking his head when images of what Spike might look like started to fade in behind his eyes. “How bad?”

Ed didn’t answer, too busy yelling at the bomb tech to open his eyes, and Greg closed his and tried again.

“Ed, how bad is he?”

But no one answered him, so the negotiator stormed out of the command truck and into the bright afternoon air. He was a stretcher rolling out of the house, and he nearly lost his balance stepping onto the ground when he saw the blood and forming-bruises on Spike’s face. They had an oxygen mask strapped to the brunette’s mouth and nose, and they were cutting away his Kevlar to get to his chest. Spike wasn’t responding, and Greg watched like the scene was a movie as Sam scrambled into the ambulance after their lover and said something to Ed.

The bald sniper nodded, and stepped back so the paramedics could slam the doors shut. Then they were gone, and Greg wasn’t sure if he was glad or devastated that he couldn’t see shaky rise and fall of Spike’s bruised ribcage. Now he was faced with the icy, shaken blue eyes of Ed—and the team leader slowly made his way over to the negotiator.

“They said it didn’t look like he had a head injury, just a bad cut on his forehead,” Ed started, “His ribs might be cracked, though.”

“God, Eddie,” Greg croaked, and the bald sniper rested a firm hand on the negotiator’s shoulder.

“We’re human; we all make bad calls. What’s important now is making sure Spike’s okay. C’mon, let’s get to the hospital, the rest of the team said they’d get this finished up.”

Greg could only nod.

 

* * *

 

Spike knew that Greg would blame himself—and truly, the man had made a bad call by not listening to the bomb tech’s concerns, but that was nothing they could go back and fix so Spike let it go and forgave—but he didn’t think it would manifest like this.

He could hear Ed talking on the phone just outside the bedroom door as the brunette rested in Sam’s arms—they were at the older sniper’s house, as Greg had said he was too busy tonight to have them over at his house. The younger sniper was dead asleep, pressed against Spike’s back with their legs tangled together and his arms tight around his torso—mindful of the fading bruises on his stomach.

The brunette knew that Ed was grilling Greg over his recent behavior, and that he was doing it at the ungodly hour of 4 o’clock in the morning because he didn’t want Spike to hear.

“He thinks you hate him, Greg. You can’t keep doing this to him—to us.” Ed spoke softly, but Spike heard the words like they were shouted into his ears.

Spike didn’t want to think about the looks the negotiator had been giving him, how his gaze become foggy and tense when he saw the bomb tech casually splay-out on Sam or tackle Ed, like they were hoarding him and Greg wanted to fit into that picture like a puzzle piece shoved into a slot that isn’t made for it.

But Spike had tried so damn hard to make sure Greg knew that he loved them all the same, that they were intertwined and connected, but the man’s gaze only turned cold when Spike tried to lay a hand on him or tell him he loved him. The bomb tech wanted to cry when he remembered how Greg had watched with some twisted anger as Spike playfully kissed his lovers—and when the brunette went to lay one on the negotiator, the brown-eyed man turned away and made up some excuse to leave.

He didn’t understand the jealousy when Greg had entered this relationship knowing that they all shared each other—that they were in a closed relationship with only them and that they’d all be involved with each other.

He didn’t understand why Greg thought it would be a better night to stay out late god-knows-where than to stay in with Ed and Sam and himself and watch dumb movies on Netflix. But at least, when he showed back up or stayed over on rare nights, he didn’t smell like alcohol. Spike could deal with watching Greg separate himself, he could deal with the man’s irrational and confusing jealousy, but he would never survive watching the man fall apart and resorting to the bottle. He didn’t think Ed could either, and Sam probably wouldn’t handle it well also.

Sam was stirring against his back, nuzzling into Spike’s neck, and the bomb tech relaxed a bit as he snuggled into the strong hold the blonde had him locked it.

Maybe it would be better tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t.

Spike stood in Greg’s living room, listening to his three lovers arguing in the kitchen—where they’d found the negotiator swaying and holding a half-empty bottle of beer. Ed had pushed the bomb tech towards the living room, and Sam had moved in front of Spike as if to protect him from the sight—but they didn’t understand, he’d seen things just as bad as they had. Yeah, he’d never been in war, but domestic problems?

…Spike was no one’s victim, but he’d stood before his parents as his father berated him for being a failure and a worthless child; he’d seen his father’s hope diminish as the words got worse and Spike didn’t back down and give in. He’d hadn’t seen the love fade, but the hateful words didn’t stop until his father had breathed out his _I’m scared, Mikey_. Even after that, though, it still didn’t free him from the letters imprinted in his mind.

So, the bomb tech padded into the kitchen—the scent of booze burning his nose—and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam. Ed was busy ransacking the place for more liquor and pouring it down the sink, but Greg didn’t pay attention.

The bottle slipped from the man’s hand, and Greg narrowed his eyes at the brunette.

“When did you start again?” Spike asked, trying to keep the ire out of his voice and most importantly his expression, and then waited for an answer—but none came. “Greg, this doesn’t make you weak—but you should have come to us and asked for help. Is this why you’ve been so distant? You didn’t want to ask for help? We all love you; we would have helped!” Then he whispered, “God, Greg, you don’t even let me hug you anymore—,”

“Maybe I didn’t want you clinging to me like some desperate, pathetic brat!” The negotiator spat, words slurred slightly, “Maybe I didn’t want to hear your annoying voice in my ear constantly! Huh, Spike, you ever think of _that_? I thought you were supposed to be a near-genius!”

Spike’s eyebrows furrowed, not willing to cry because weakness only makes them yell more, and he didn’t say a word as he turned on his heel and walked out of the apartment—softly closing the door behind him.

The brunette could hear Ed and Sam screaming even with the door separating them, but Spike just walked out of the parking lot and onto the sidewalk—glad he was wearing tennis shoes as he started to pick up his pace and fell into a jog and then into a run.

When he reached his destination, a light sweat on his skin and his clothes clinging to his skin, Spike sat down lightly in the grass and smiled at the gravestone, and didn’t hide the cracks in his voice as he spilled out his heart.

“Hey, Lou.”

 

* * *

 

It was two months after “the incident”—as Spike dubbed it—and the bomb tech was still getting used to sleeping alone in his own bed. His apartment had never seen him so much, and he’d finally found the incentive to properly unpack everything from the boxes stacked around. He was still getting used to keeping his distance from Greg and keeping a rocky friendship with Ed and Sam.

He was still getting used to being on Team Two, after he’d asked to be moved for ‘personal reasons’. The team was nice, and everyone was sweet, but it wasn’t the same. But it was what he was stuck with, so he’d deal with it.

Because he just hadn’t been able to go to work knowing that his three former lovers were still together—though it didn’t seem like a steady, stable pairing.

Spike’s phone snapped him out of his thoughts, and he was glad for the distraction, as he answered the familiar SRU dispatch number and started to grab his keys—he never got called in unless there was a call big enough that the team on shift couldn’t handle it alone.

“Spike,” Winnie spoke as soon as he answered the phone, and he pressed the device against his ear with his shoulder as he hopped on one leg to pull on his shoe.

“Yeah?”

“Team One’s involved in a hostage situation, I’ll explain when you and Team Two get here—but hurry, okay?”

“Got it,” Spike pulled on his other shoe, barely getting it on before he was out the door and climbing into his car. “I’m on the way.”

With that, she hung up.

 

* * *

 

Team Two arrived at the scene, debriefed and geared up, in a flurry of SUVs. Spike jumped out of the van, grabbing his bomb disarming equipment, and started scanning the building with his eyes.

“Set a perimeter two hundred feet back,” Spike told his team leader, rolling Babycakes out of the van and onto the pavement. “Any idea how many bombs or explosive devices are inside the building?”

“Sergeant Parker said thinks there’s one by the main stairwell, and there’s ones on the sole entrance in the room they’re locked in.”

“Awesome,” Spike breathed under his breath, hiding his fear casually, and slung the bag over his back as he let the robot crawl forward. The team was busy behind him setting up the perimeter, and he could hear Sierra 1 and 2 racing to find a sniping perch so they could take the shot once Spike cleared them. “How’d they manage that?”

“Ambushed by cartel members, forced into the room, and they rigged it to blow if they tried to get out.” His sergeant told him seriously, and Spike scanned Babycake’s screen as she rolled through the entrance to the decrepit building.

“Do they have their headsets on them?” Spike asked, clicking the buttons on the controller as he blocked remote detonators and kneeled next to the first bomb. He heard the “no” come over the radio, and nodded before continuing his appraisal. It was just a crude C4 explosive, and the brunette quickly defused it and walked out the same way he’d came in with the device cradled in his hands. Quickly dropping it off at the containment truck, he returned to Babycakes and spurred her onwards.

He ran into one, like his sergeant had told him, at the base of the stairs. It wasn’t nearly as basic as the C4 was—it was a mess of wires and the motion sensors looked back at him eerily. Pulling out his PDA, Spike looked over the schematics Winnie had given him and spotted one that matched the bomb he was peering down at.

It took a lot longer to disable this one, a staggering ten minutes, but Spike clipped the last wire and leaned back on his heels. His back groaned with effort as Spike hauled the bomb up and carried it down the hallway and out the front door to the truck. Then, he walked the way back and kept an eye out for any other devices.

He didn’t see any.

He just saw the door that his Winnie had said the team was stuck behind, and Spike trailed his gaze over the mess of C4 and wires and delicate motion sensors.

“Hey, are you guys alright in there?” Spike called, setting his bag down next to him and pulling out the necessary tools. The door was thick, and he wasn’t sure they’d heard him, but Jules’ voice called back in response.

“Yeah, Spike, we’re all okay. How’s the bomb looking?”

There was a moment of heart ache when he didn’t hear Ed or Sam or Greg’s voices—he still loved them, but he wasn’t going to watch them fall apart from Greg’s vice, he’d rather live without them than see pain in their eyes and starve in sleepless nights—but he pushed that away.

“It might take a while, it’s made to detect any movement from this door but there’s no remote detonator and it’s not on a timer.”

“Sorry we had to wake you up, Spike,” He heard Wordy call from in the room—forced humor thick in his words and Spike smiled and shook his head.

“Oh, you know me, Wordy, I love a good challenge.”

After that, he fell silent and studied the device—he found the first wire to the first bundle of C4 easily, but he needed to disarm the motion sensors first. Deftly, Spike grabbed a can from his side and set to work.

 

* * *

 

Sweat was dripping down his brow, and Spike rested his hands on his knees as he looked at his work. He was nearly done; he just had two wires left to cut. His stomach was growling, and his legs were tired but he was nearly done and then he could go home and sleep for a week.

Spike’s hands didn’t shake as he snipped the last two wires, and his legs didn’t buckle—though, they wanted to—as he crouched down to begin peeling off the C4 and placing it in the metal box he’d grabbed from the containment truck.

But he still had to face the people on the other side of the door, and he was far too tired to deal with anything emotional.

Pulling the door open took some effort, because his arms were tired from the two hours of bomb diffusing, but it finally creaked wide.

His former team mates were sitting around the room—as far away from the door as possible—and they sprung up as Spike continued to push the door open.

“Hey, guys,” Spike smiled, and Team One began to filter out of the room, and he heard the metal box lift off the ground as he turned around to see Wordy flash him a smile as the man carried it away. He grinned back, glad that his friend was okay, but before he could call a thanks over to him the air was punched out of his lungs by a bodily hug. Or at least, he assumed it was supposed to be a hug.

He had an armful of Greg, the man’s face pressed into Spike’s neck, and he could feel the negotiator’s tears mixing in with his sweat.

“I’m so _so_ sorry,” the older man gasped into his skin, and Spike wasn’t sure what had brought this on but he lightly patted Greg on the back and stepped carefully out of the embrace.

“I know you are, but you understand _why_ I had to do what I did, right?” Spike asked him cautiously, eyeing Ed and Sam who were hovering a few feet away.

Greg’ only response was a rapid nod because the man couldn’t find the words, but his eyes were sober and by the looks in his other two ex-lover’s eyes—there had been some improvement in the time he’d left them alone.

“Okay.” The bomb tech nodded, “We can talk about this later, but right now I need to go change and get some sleep.”

“Well, then we better get going,” Ed gave a weary smile, and placed his hand on Greg’s arm as Spike grabbed the control for Babycakes and wheeled her towards the truck.

Sam offered to drive him back to the base, but Spike lightly told him that he was going to ride back with Team Two—they’d grown on him quickly, and he knew they wanted to be with him for a few minutes; they were always like that for any member, when someone was in a dangerous situation, it took a few minutes of just sitting close to reassure themselves that no one had gotten hurt.

There was pain in all three expressions, but Greg’s wasn’t the cold, jealous, out of control look it had been so Spike felt some sliver of hope burrow into his chest.

 

* * *

 

The locker room was quiet when Spike finished changing, and he could hear Ed and Sam and Greg crashing around in the next row but he didn’t have the energy to have the heavy conversation they needed at the moment.

So he walked towards the door, knowing they’d stop him, and didn’t blink an eye when a hand grabbed his arm before pulling back hesitantly.

“Um,” Greg mumbled, and Sam watched from where he was sitting on the bench and Ed paused where he was pulling on his jacket.

“I’m too tired, right now,” Spike started, “but I promise we will have a conversation about what we want to do, when I’m not dead on my feet, alright?”

“I just want you to know,” Greg rushed out, “I should have never touched that bottle—,”

“I know,” Spike gave the negotiator a small smile, and bit his lip before grabbing the hem of his jeans. He shuffled them down just enough to show his hip, and let the three lovers see the five clean lines drawn across his skin—in the same place where there had been the pale scar tissue that had healed so long ago that there had been no sign, no way they could’ve known. The skin was purpled and just barely raised, but Spike knew these wouldn’t go away as easily as the others had. The three men looked at the cuts with devastated eyes.

“-but we all make mistakes. And we recover, and we move on.”

Greg had tears running down his cheeks, and Sam looked so shocked it hurt, and Ed had gone as white as a ghost.

“Relapses suck, but you can’t let it ruin your life. What happened… happened, and we can’t go back so we just have to go forward.”

Spike pulled back up the material of his jeans and gave them all a quick hug before walking out of the locker room, and there were no footsteps behind him so he waved a goodnight to Winnie and the overnight team before heading for his car.

They’d be okay.

They were survivors.

 

 


End file.
